


Three Little Words ... I Love You

by CastielAndDean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastielAndDean/pseuds/CastielAndDean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's writing sad music, doesn't eat, barely talks ... I'd say he was heartbroken." A fanfiction based on one of my videos on YouTube. John is secretly in love with Sherlock and can't keep it any longer inside. So he tries to show Sherlock his feelings ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Little Words ... I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is based on a video I uploaded on YouTube. If you want to see it, search for "Johnlock Three Little Words". Thank you. Have fun with the fanfic!

“He's writing sad music … Doesn't eat … Barely talks … I'd say he was heartbroken.” 

John stepped slowly into the dimly lit hallway. The echo of his words resounded off the high walls, as did one of his steps. He was surprised to notice that nobody was there. But he had an appointment with someone!

“Yes, he is.”

The doctor winced fearfully. A woman with dark hair and shining eyes stepped out of the shadows. He would have recognized her among thousands of others because he did not like her very much – particularly because she liked Sherlock. And he liked her. Maybe a little too much.

“How do you know?” John hissed harshly and clenched his hands into fists. What was she doing here? Lestrade should have waited here for him. He wanted to talk with the Inspector and also consult with him about how things should continue with Sherlock. The detective was strongly against leaving his flat, spent the whole day playing sad compositions on his violin and staring out of the window. If John did not give him something to eat, he would have starved by now. Not even an unsolved murder could cheer him up.

“I've texted him,” Irene replied and John felt a sting in his chest. That was the reason Sherlock used his phone so often!

“And he told you that he is heartbroken? I don't think he would tell anyone – especially not _you_.”

“Oh, Mr Watson,” Irene laughed. “I have a feeling that you are jealous.”

Before John could reply, she continued, “He loves you.”

He needed a moment to get the meaning of her words. How could she know so much about the detective?

“I'm not actually gay,” John retorted, but he felt how he blushed. He knew it was a lie. And Irene seemed to know that too.

“Yes, you are!” she yelled and her chatty tone suddenly vanished. She looked at him severely, without any sign of amusement in her eyes.

“You love him too. Don’t you?”

“I … I don't know…,” John mumbled slowly. “Maybe.”

In that moment he remembered the day when he and Sherlock had been sitting on the sofa in Buckingham Palace. They had laughed from the bottom of their hearts. Sherlock had been only wearing a white sheet, which he had nearly dropped later. The memory warmed John's heart. Oh Sherlock … 

“Fine,” John sighed and looked into Irene's eyes. “I'll tell him.”

Irene smiled contently. “That's what I wanted to hear.”

“But I thought, you … Sherlock and you …”

“When I saw you and him together for the first time, it was obvious to me that I had no chance. His heart already belonged to someone else.”

John raised his eyebrows, but then looked away. Was it really so obvious what Sherlock felt? It was not obvious to him. Of course, Sherlock treated him differently than other people around him sometimes, but by now John considered his behavior as friendship – if Sherlock was actually able to call someone a friend. John has been sure that Sherlock would never allow himself into something as deep as love. According to him, love – and all other emotions too – were chemical defects.

“How do you know?” John whispered and caught Irene's gaze. She was still smiling.

“Go now, Watson, and determine the tragedy of Sherlock Holmes, playing sad compositions on his violin!” she said without answering his question. She then turned around swiftly and left. John remained there for a moment, glued to the spot, before he hit his path back to Baker Street, his heart beating wildly.

  


To his disappointment – or fortune, he did not know which exactly – Sherlock was not there. Mrs Hudson could not provide him any information about the detective's whereabouts, so there was nothing else for John to do except wait for his flatmate.

He sat down on his bed and thought carefully about how to tell Sherlock. Bluntly? Beat around the bush first? Write it on a note and stick it on his forehead?

That would be ridiculous, John thought to himself, although he had to grin when he thought of a note with the words 'I love you, Sherlock!' on his forehead.

He had not come to a decision when he heard the noise of the flat door opening.

“Mrs Hudson, the biscuits are out!’ He heard Sherlock's low and melodious voice coming from the living room. He smiled automatically. Sherlock was a very peculiar case. Maybe the detective should think about deducing himself. That would be beneficial to his fellow humans in some regards. And maybe for Sherlock, too.

“John, open this package for me.”

John jerked, startled. How did Sherlock know he was there?

He went into the living room where Sherlock sat in his armchair and gazed at a package, the size of a beverage crate. He was in his typical pose –fingertips templed, lips compressed, frozen stare.

“How …” 

John had to clear his throat before he tried to speak again. His mouth was very dry. “How can I help you?”

Sherlock did not look at him. 

“Open it for me,” he said.

He did not ask why Sherlock did not open it himself. Too often he had to do things for the detective which he would not do himself, for no valid reason. One time John had had to yank Sherlock’s mobile phone out of his coat pocket because he had been busy identifying some germs under the microscope. Another time he had asked John to come to the flat to fetch the detective his laptop that was n the side room while Sherlock had just lain on the sofa.

So John opened the package and opened his eyes wide, very surprised when countless eyeballs awaited him inside the box. As if stung by an adder he jumped to his feet and backed away.

“Oh, the ordered eyes,” Sherlock said without an explanation. He turned and looked at John. “What's the matter?”

“Er … nothing, nothing,” John stammered. “Everything's alright, I …” He suddenly got the brilliant idea how to show Sherlock his feelings.

The detective had already started to inspecting the package joyfully and put it down on his desk.

“Sherlock?”

The detective looked up. “Yes?”

“I've got a date,” said John and felt how his heartbeat increased.

“What?” Sherlock asked, bewildered.

“A date. When two people who like each other go out and have fun,” John explained and grinned. In this regard Sherlock really lived under a rock!

The detective gazed puzzled at him for a few moments before he turned his attention to the package again.

“Who?” he finally asked, trying to sound casual. He did not succeed entirely.

Although he was happy that Sherlock was not indifferent to with whom he went out, John swallowed nervously– because now he had to tell him with whom he wanted to go out.

“You,” he replied quietly, yet loud enough that Sherlock must have heard it.

He was relieved that the word had come out and watched Sherlock closely.

To his great delight he noticed that a smile appeared on Sherlock's face, although he tried to hide it by keeping his head lowered.

“Well?” John broached the subject again after a minute of silence. “What do you think about that?”

“Angelo’s,” Sherlock replied and stood up. He approached his flatmate and raised his eyebrows. “Ready?”

“Oh yes,” John grinned and thought his heart would jump out his chest every second.

  


Angelo, to whom the little restaurant they had just entered belonged to, grinned impishly when he saw the two of them. He led them to a table in front of the window. At first there was just embarrassed silence, but when John approached the content of the package again, the ice broke. Sherlock explained to him why he ordered the eyes. In the end, both of them roared with laughter because the detective had indulged his passion again of requesting body parts and keeping them in the fridge to experiment with them.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” John asked bluntly when they got their meals. He had known Sherlock for a while, but nothing was impossible concerning Sherlock – thus it could be possible that Sherlock had a partner John did not know about.

“John,” Sherlock started seriously and looked in the doctor's eyes. “I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and –”

“I'm not asking, no,” John interrupted him hastily and could not believe what he just heard. Was Irene wrong? Did Sherlock not feel something for him? But why had he gone out with him then?

“Good,” Sherlock mumbled and stood up. “I'm sorry, John, but I am not hungry.”

“You haven’t been any time recently,” John said in a peeved tone. “You’ve acted very strangely in the last few weeks – stranger than usual. Don't you think you owe me an explanation for your curious behavior?”

“No,” answered Sherlock, but sat down again, to John's astonishment. He then put a piece of meat into his mouth, chewed it dully and swallowed it quickly. He then looked at John. “See, I ate something. Are you satisfied now, Dr Watson?”

But John just shook his head. “Please tell me what's wrong. You are playing sad music on your violin, you aren't eating and you are just barely talking, except for this evening. What's the matter, Sherlock?”

“I am playing sad music because it helps me think better than happy music. I don't eat because it blocks the mental process. And I don't talk because I can't play, talk and think clearly at the same time.”

John almost laughed. Sherlock was as rational as usual when it came to explanations. But this time the doctor did not believe all he had said.

Before he could respond, Sherlock stood again and went to the door. A moment later he had left the restaurant.

“You’re paying, I guess?” Angelo stood behind Sherlock's chair and stared at John. He nodded, preoccupied, and laid down some money. When Angelo came to return him some money John just mumbled “Keep the change”, grabbed his coat and followed Sherlock, who was a few feet ahead.

“Sherlock, wait!” John yelled and tried to follow him as quickly as possible. In a dimly-lit alley Sherlock finally stopped. As John came to a stand next to him, Sherlock suddenly said, “Let's dance.”

Totally out of breath, John sank to the ground. Everything was spinning. Obviously he had run too fast. 

“What?!” he gasped, surprised.

“Let's dance,” Sherlock repeated, grabbing John and pulling him up again. Before he knew it, he was dancing a slow waltz with Sherlock. He was surprised his flatmate could dance. He had not thought he was capable of dancing. But he danced well.

John had never been as close to Sherlock as now. His hand was soft and warm, the material of his coat felt indescribably good, and he could feel the warm breath of his dancing partner flow softly over his face. What fascinated John most were Sherlock's eyes. Even in the dark of the night they shined as bright as two sapphires. He could not have escaped the detective's gaze, even if he wanted to – which was, of course, not his wish.

After what seemed like ages they stopped. Sherlock immediately released John's hand and stepped back.

“Thank you,” he said quietly He then turned around ,leaving John alone.

  


“Sherlock, are you listening?”

John bent forward in his arm chair and looked at Sherlock who was sitting in his thinking pose at his desk, staring into space. The whole day John had tried in vain to get Sherlock, who seemed to have turned into stone, to speak a word.

“Answer, please! What was that last night? Why did you want to dance with me? Please, Sherlock, tell me!”

“A …” Sherlock mumbled slowly and John's jaw dropped. Yes! A sign of life! It had not been a waste of time!

“A what?” he asked, very excited.

“Sentiment …”

The doctor sighed. How would he be able to make any use of this answer?

Finally, John stood up, mumbled something and grabbed his coat. He could not bear just to sit there any longer and wait for an answer from Sherlock he would never get. Fresh air, that was what he needed.

  


Outside he walked around, aimlessly and entirely agitated. What unsettled him was that Sherlock had not said any word all the day – except for a few minutes ago. Not even the news this morning about an unexplained disappearance of a little girl had led Sherlock to make a sound. He had only looked mutely on his breakfast plate and stood up to play his violin; needless to say he had played a sad melody. At some point he had sat down at his desk and John had tried to figure something out, which had totally failed.

After a long time of walking, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, but did not turn around. He knew that it was Sherlock.

“John.”

“It's fine,” he snapped. Now he was the one who did not want to talk. He wanted to be alone.

“No, wait! What happened last night? Something happened to me. Something I’ve not really experienced before …”

“Yes, you said – sentiment.” John bit his bottom lip.

“It was more than that, John!”

He was tugged around roughly until he was looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. Just a few inches separated his face and the detective's. John was reminded of last night and struggled against the impulse of hugging Sherlock.

“It was love I felt, John. Love. I can't believe that …”

John could not believe what he had just heard. Did Sherlock really speak about love?

“You don’t know anything about love,” John muttered with a tearful voice. “When we met you told me that emotions are chemical defects. You did not want to deal with them, especially not love. How do you know how it feels then?”

“Because I felt it,” Sherlock answered. “When we danced.”

“It's not that easy,” John explained. “Love grows. It needs time to emerge, it does not come overnight. First, there's a spark, just a hint, you can barely feel it. The spark becomes a flame which grows bigger, and becoming a fire somehow. But the fire dies when you don't keep it alive. Same with love. It grows in time, but it can vanish suddenly.”

The tone of his last words left no doubt that John felt this way now. Sherlock suddenly grabbed his hand and started running. Utterly taken by surprise, John was pulled along.

“What are you doing?” he shouted, trying to keep in step with the detective.

“Keeping your fire alive!” Sherlock replied, laughing loudly. After about a hundred meters he slowed and they began to just walk leisurely. John panted eagerly for breath and was hardly able to think clearly. The only thing he noticed was that they were on the way back to Baker Street.

  


Sherlock was very cheerful when they entered the flat. John did not know what to think about the whole situation. Was Sherlock just playing one of his crazy games with him?

Panting and really exhausted, he slumped into his armchair. Sherlock sat down on the opposite one. For a while the only noise in the room was John's breathing. The detective did not seem out of breath. He just sat with a big grin in his armchair and stared at the ceiling.

After a while he stood up in front of his flatmate. John raised his head and looked at him quizzically. Immediately he was caught by Sherlock's gaze and rose automatically. Sherlock was taller than John so he had to tilt his head up. A smile appeared on Sherlock's face which led John to a smile too. A moment later Sherlock bent downwards and John felt the detective's warm lips on his own.

He hardly realized the kiss was happening until it was already over. Sherlock stepped back and pushed his hands in his trouser pockets, looking softly at John.

That was too much for the doctor. He couldn't help falling back into his chair and breathing deeply a few times, not realizing what just happened.

“You criticized me a short while ago, John, saying that I didn't know anything about love. You were wrong like so many times before. Because I do.”

And then Sherlock told him about the spark which had leapt when they first met.

“You gave me your mobile and our hands touched. In this moment there was a sensation in my hand. I reasoned it was the malfunction of a nerve, but it wasn't. And when we solved our second case together and you were kidnapped with Sarah … I thought that my heart would jump out of my chest, it really hurt. Up to now I thought it was the adrenaline, but now I know it was fear – I was afraid to lose you. Since the encounter with The Woman it has become clear to me that I feel something for you. The signs of interest I found in Irene I found in you too, and I wasn't terrified. I was … relieved. Happy. Our dance fanned the spark into a fire.”

“Did you … just deduce yourself?” grinned John and rose. 

“Obviously.”

“And what's your conclusion?”

“The conclusion is clear and can be outlined in three words,” Sherlock said factually, as always, but his sparkling eyes hinted at more. “Three little words … I love you.”

John smiled. He was happy that Sherlock really loved him and that it was not just a phase of falling in love. Both knew the flaws and idiosyncrasies of the other one, but they still wanted each other the way they were. To be honest, John loved the craziness of the detective that nearly touched on insanity. Sherlock gave the doctor the feeling of being needed, and not just as a colleague, but as a friend – a lover.

“Great summary,” John finally said, still smiling. “I totally agree. Your deduction got the heart of it.”

“Does it go for you too, Dr Watson?”

Instead of a verbal answer, John took a step forward and pulled Sherlock down by his collar to kiss him. The detective returned the kiss. Closely embraced, they continued for a while until they heard a surprised gasp. They pulled apart.

“Oh, boys!”

It was Mrs Hudson standing in the door with a box of biscuits in her hands. She beamed at them as if she just achieved her dreams.

“Listen, Mrs Hudson, we –”

“John, you don't need to justify in any way,” the landlady laughed and put her purchase on the table. “I always knew it: You two were made for each other!” 

Not even Sherlock knew how to reply. He cleared his throat, went to the table and opened the box.

“Do you want one?” he asked Mrs Hudson, who shook her head, still smiling. With a shrug Sherlock took two biscuits and handed one to John. 

“I will leave you alone now,” Mrs Hudson said and left the flat.

“Since this case is solved now,” Sherlock explained, pointing at himself and then at John, “we need a new one.”

“I think I heard something on the radio this morning,” John grinned and Sherlock's eyes lit up like the those of a child whose big dream had just come true.

  


“We're a couple,” John shouted and stepped into the hall where Irene Adler was already waiting for him.

“Nice to hear that,” she greeted him. “I was right then.”

John nodded. Then his mobile beeped. He took it out of his pocket and looked at the display. Immediately he had to grin.

_Come at once if convenient._  
 _If inconvenient, come anyway!_  
 _S._

“You're needed?” Irene asked, but it sounded more like a statement than a question.

“Right,” John answered and let his phone slide back into his pocket. “Thanks for everything. I will never know why you helped me, but –”

“That's not necessary,” Irene interrupted him smiling. “That's the way it is. Women have secrets. No man should ever know them.”

“So we've cleared it up,” said John, nevertheless irritated. Someone should understand women! He was lucky to have Sherlock. He was … oh well. Not less complicated. The doctor had to laugh inwardly.

“Good bye, Miss Adler,” he said.

“See you soon, Dr Watson.”

This time it was John who turned to leave first. He was in a hurry to get to Sherlock because he knew: Whatever the detective needed - he would help him.

Even if he just had to pass him the biscuits standing on the table next to him.


End file.
